


(we are) the warriors that built this town

by cabinfever



Series: miracle saints of an undying city [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Gen, Immortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 15:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11256240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabinfever/pseuds/cabinfever
Summary: The citizens of Los Santos have no idea about the saints which walk among them. They do not know that titans stride through their cities in the bodies of men.Another look at the saints of a sinful city.





	(we are) the warriors that built this town

Sometimes, the stars don’t shine over Los Santos.

Starved for energy, the saints draw their strength from the feral heat of the cosmos, taking power from the plasma that created them.  _ star stuff _ , the mortals whisper.  _ we're all made of star stuff _ .

They're wrong.

On the nights when they drain the stars, the Fake AH Crew ravages the city. Driven by the power of the violent coupling of atoms, the saints work their miracles on the steel bones of Los Santos. There is something terrifying about the way that they come down the streets. They ride in cars, equal in appearance to the humans they rule, but there is the hidden fire of a nuclear reactor in their eyes. To meet their gaze is to tempt fate, but some would rather be blind than damned.

The Bible called its angels wheels of fire and creatures of many eyes and faces. The saints of Los Santos are far, far worse.

Some are blessed enough to see the saints for what they truly are, if only for a moment. Looking upon a saint unbound means incurable blindness, but those who have dared to open their eyes still remember. Unbound by the mortal abilities of flesh, the saints’ eldritch forms are revealed.

The Kingpin, oldest and wisest and most dangerous of the saints, has had his form since before the city dragged itself from the earth. He takes the shape of a man made of steel and ink and gunpowder, trailing potential immolation in his wake. He is volatile in the most dangerous ways, and there is always a sharp edge to him from any direction.

The Vagabond is a maelstrom of black fire barely contained by a shell of blue ice. His star halo spikes outward in bloody glaciers that catch and refract and absorb the light. Somehow, the discordant crashing of his icy joints sounds symphonic as he plunges a blade through his victim’s chest.

The Bomber is a rolling force of rubble and flame, taking shape and morphing as he barrels through the wide streets of Los Santos. His touch will incinerate any enemy and soothe lost souls to sleep. Warm and scalding, fierce and welcoming, he is both the hearth and the wildfire and somehow that is okay.

The Golden Boy is a figure made of diamond and glass, stealing light and scattering it in blinding rays. He is confusing and brilliant at the same time, fragile and unbreakable in an incredible paradox. The children he saves on Geoff’s behalf all recall the way his eyes gleamed from behinds his golden glasses. Somehow, the children of Los Santos are unharmed by the sight of his refractive divinity. 

The Pilot’s true form is a mass of red smoke with a million faces. Each expression has been worn or will be worn by a citizen of Los Santos - in a way, the entire history of the city is told through their face. Always changing, always radiant, the Pilot can adapt to any situation. They are flexible and uncatchable, a miracle of talent. No matter the face they adopt, however, their human form always has a shock of ginger hair.

When the Sniper still frequented the rooftops and lookouts of Los Santos, he had been a shadow with firework eyes. Always watching, always listening, always ready to burst into violent awareness. 

The Warrior’s true form is new-forged compared to the other saints. His figure is more overtly human, made entirely of starlight and supernovas. His eyes are nebulas of yellow and orange and violet, bright and fierce and full of new life. His solar flare gaze blinds anyone who he chooses to look at the right way. Even here, in this plane, his hands are marked with the scars of his kind.

The citizens of Los Santos have no idea about the true nature of the monsters which walk among them. They do not know that titans stride through their cities in the bodies of men.

 

***

 

Jack can't resist the call.

There are some things that she can never turn down. One of these things happens to be fighter jets.

When Gavin calls her in the middle of her carefully scheduled target practice, she knows that he means business. The others know not to bother her when she has a gun in her hands. She presses the speaker button and places the phone on the firing bench, leaving her hands free to dismantle her pistol. “Talk to me.”

“Jack, you've got to come down. Airport. Now.”

Jack frowns, pausing with her hands cradling the empty clip. “Explain,” she orders.

“I'm currently sat in a fresh-stolen jet. Zancudo didn't even notice me taking it.”

“You didn't crash it?” She snorts, shaking her head. “Shocker.” 

“Come on!” Gavin whines indignantly.

Jack asks, “So how the hell did Zancudo not get on your trail?”

Gavin’s end of the line is silent for a few moments, and Jack heaves a massive internal sigh. This means cleanup. He finally says, “Well, there may no longer be anyone in Zancudo. Alive, anyway.” 

Jack puts down the gun and steeples her fingers at her forehead, taking a deep breath. “This is the third time in as many months, Gavin.”

“Sorry?” Gavin ventures, voice impossibly high and wheedling. 

“Call Matt and Geoff. Tell them we need a repopulation at the base. That, or a mass resurrection.” She hums in contemplation for a moment, then adds, “Though I highly doubt Geoff’ll go for a miracle this time. Don't move an inch. I'll be there in five.”

She may or may not break a few laws of physics on her way to Zancudo.

Gavin hadn't lied. The jet really is freshly stolen and in prime condition. Jack runs her hand appreciatively down the shining nose of the craft, marveling at its form. She usually only interacts with jets in the heat of the moment, stealing them away for heists under fire. She wants to savor this moment.

Gavin smirks at her, leaning against his motorcycle beside her. “You’re welcome,” he says, as if he’s waiting for a thank you. 

Jack looks at him over her shoulder and pulls her face into an expression she hopes conveys her complete unwillingness to comply. “It’s a good jet, Gavin, but you still killed everyone to get it.”

“Details,” Gavin scoffs, waving it off. 

Jack reaches over and punches him on the shoulder. She doesn’t mean it, of course - mostly. “You’re a pain,” she tells him, and Gavin flashes her a grin and blows a kiss before ducking and stepping onto his motorcycle. Of  _ course _ it’s a Sanchez. “Go home,” she says, and Gavin salutes, revving his engine and peeling away with a roar past the bodies of Zancudo’s inhabitants.

Jack watches him go for a moment and then clambers up to the top of the jet, popping the cockpit open. She slips in with the easy practice of years spent in the air. The controls barely carry the faint impression of use, untouched for the most part by mortals. Test flights and safety checks are nothing compared to what Jack will use this jet for. She forgoes the seat harness and instead just pulls the cockpit closed over her head, flipping switches to bring the vehicle to life. The jet’s engines burst into activity with a whine and a roar, sounding for all the world like a beast on its way to raze the city for the ground.

With this as her steed, maybe Jack is.

She rolls the jet down the bloodstained tarmac of Zancudo, picking up speed with the rising sound of the jet engines. When she finally lifts off from the ground, the swoop in her stomach makes her laugh with surprise. Every time, this has been her favorite feeling. She would never trade it for anything. If leaving Los Santos means leaving this catharsis behind, she would rather be trapped here forever.

Below her, she can feel the admiring gazes of the citizens of her city. She feels their prayers for strength and skill as she breaks the sound barrier above them, and she laughs and dives, spiraling towards the skyscrapers. She pulls up at the right moment - of course she does - and angles away and out to the ocean, trailing blessings in her wake.

 

***

 

The conquerors of Chiliad are revered in Los Santos.

These are the people who could not stand to live in a Los Santos where they were powerless. They are the ones who would rather tear their bodies to shreds attempting to claim a new life than continue to exist in a mortal Los Santos. 

For some, it isn’t enough.

Some say Jeremy was dissatisfied with the half-life of a climber. Some say he took Los Santos in his own hands and built his own divinity. Tired of standing to the side, tired of always looking up. The penthouse loomed above Los Santos for what seemed like miles, and he breached the divide. The hymns say that he climbed to the roof - hands already scarred from the bloody ascent to Chiliad - and was welcomed like he had always belonged.

Maybe he had.

And somehow, the Warrior became a saint. 

The Architect is responsible for the structures in Los Santos which rise and fall with the easy rhythm of music. There is always a building being built, sending dust into the air and drawing new prey to the city in the form of construction workers and contractors. Somehow, these people rarely make it out of the city alive. 

And there is always a block being razed, be it by his design or by the work of his comrades. After a building has blown - courtesy of the Bomber, some say - it’s rumored that one can see a tall, lanky man standing before the ruins. He sighs, runs his scarred fingers through long hair now streaked with plaster dust, and gives a half-muffled curse.

As he walks away, the rubble shakes and begins to shuffle back into place.

The Maze Bank tower is his greatest project. It had loomed long before he gained his immortality, but he strives to claim it for his own. He builds cruel games on the tower and beyond for the saints’ pleasure, allowing them to use the city in ways they never could have dreamed. He is useful to them this way, and they are glad for his ascent.

He is not quite divine, but he has orbited the saints for so long that their light shines from his eyes. He cannot burn the people he walks among, not yet.

But he grows stronger, building the scaffolding to one day reach the penthouse.

The saints see his careful progress and do not stop him.

People say that the Wild Card is the most beautiful woman in the city. Like in children’s books, she is beautiful and terrible at the same time. When she strides into battle beside the Fake AH Crew she wields a heavy minigun and rejoices in its clattering hymn. Every bullet sends new strength into her unaging muscles, and after a heist the Bomber sweeps her off her feet and kisses her despite the blood on their hands. Alone, the Wild Card is fearsome. With a saint at her side, she is divine.

She has taken up residence in a penthouse of her own - not as high as the saints’ perch, for that would be sacrilege, even for her - and she watches all of the city. She always has new ideas for construction and destruction, and she helps to coordinate the actions of the other apostles of Chiliad. The others, those who have not yet gained a moniker, still retain that fragile quality of mortality which looms close with each heist. She has watched soldiers rise and fall in her time with the Fake AH Crew, and no amount of scarring on their hands can save them. There are no second chances in Los Santos, and the saints do not tolerate failure.

Above them all, the Wild Card laughs - she is an agent of chaos, born to counteract the careful balance of the Kingpin in order to keep Los Santos alive. In chemistry, there are reactions which are eternally locked in a struggle between forward and reverse; the Wild Card is one and both and neither, and Los Santos stutters onward. The people of Los Santos pray to her when they wish for change.

They say that her gaze burns now. 

The Producer watches with the cool indifference of a king observing the work of his servants. They say that before he became an apostle on the peak of Chiliad, he was a genius. They say that even now, he can build his way out of any trap. Attempts to capture him and figure out the secret to his quasi-immortality end with gears in throats and socket wrenches at home where eyes used to be.   
His hands are scarred like the rest of his kind, stained with machine grease but still well-groomed. He is a perfect paradox, marred by the debris of creation while exuding the clean glow of a king. He may not be a saint in name, but some say that he walks alongside the Kingpin on balmy nights, discussing matters of state as they go. They decide the fate of the city as if they are planning lunch.

He holds the city in his hands and seems not to care, still giving easy smiles to passersby. His gaze burns ice cold and with a smile, he can watch the necks of his enemies snap. The saints know that his divinity grows with every miracle and every murder.

They climbed Chiliad, and it is still not enough.

 

***

 

“Come on,” Jeremy goads, bobbing back and forth on his toes. 

Before him, Ryan watches with a predator’s calculating eyes. He’s holding a knife in his hand, and there are several more holstered behind his shoulders. He’s made these himself, and he needs to test their balance.

The two of them are locked in a tense game, waiting for the other to make a failed move. Jeremy watches for the telltale signs of Ryan’s strike, but he knows it’s nearly futile to try. Everyone knows that the Vagabond can move with the speed of a viper if he wants to. His reflexes are inhuman, and they all know it. Despite it, Ryan bides his time, a perfect picture of a tiger in the brush with muscles coiled to strike.

Lindsay is visiting the penthouse today. She’s planning something with Geoff and needs to coordinate the movements of the rest of the apostles with those of the saints. She’s got a few new kids she’s ready to put to the test, and Geoff is always eager to try out some new talent. But for now, she’s reclining in an armchair like she was born to sit there, laughing at Jeremy’s taunts. Jeremy had been her lieutenant before he made his second climb, and she’s always loved seeing him get put to the test.

Ryan’s fingers twitch by his sides, and Jeremy flinches by instinct. Before he can even pause to think, he is ducking out of the path of a flying dagger which embeds itself quivering in the wall beside his head. Despite his immortality, he still feels the thrum of fear and adrenaline that accompanies a brush with death.

Ryan’s mouth splits into a smile of savage delight, and in a heartbeat he has grabbed a new knife with each hand and hurled them at Jeremy. They fly in perfect symmetry at Jeremy and sink into his shoulders. Jeremy roars with surprise and pain, then cuts himself off in shock as a final dagger sinks sickeningly into his heart.

Jeremy looks down at the knife in his chest and starts to laugh. It comes out sounding crackly and choked, and blood flies from his lips with each laugh, but he chuckles all the same. He can feel his heart struggling to beat around the intrusion, pumping blood out and down his shirt. He falls to his knees, gasping for breath.

Ryan hurries to him and crouches at his side, eyes blue and wide and curiously concerned, “You good?” he asks. And of course he is; they know that, but somehow the playacting of mortality comforts them. Ryan carefully tugs at the blades, trying not to jostle them too much as he removes them.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Jeremy grunts as a serrated edge scraped at a bone on the way out. “You really got me, bud.”

Ryan shrugs and grins boyishly. “I guess they’re good knives.”

“Ryan, you could throw a ping pong ball at someone and still kill them.”

From her spot across the room, Lindsay erupts into giggles.

 

***

 

The people of Los Santos aren’t sure what happens after they die.

In this city, death looms like a shadow around every corner, collecting darkness in graveyards and in the hearts of men. They all know that death will come for them in its inevitable terrifying march through time. The thing they do not know, though, is who will bring them away.

Some say that the Pilot comes to collect them on a chariot of fire, bringing them to a land of riches unending. There, they are free to pursue any skill and subject they can imagine. A man wakes up one day from a deep coma and mourns his departure from this library of fate.

Some say the Sniper finds them - even now, even when he has moved on - in their homes and takes them quietly. They say that the ones who go in their sleep, the ones who feel no pain - those are his work. He is quick and efficient and the blackness of the afterlife comes rushing to meet them in a quick embrace. Ever merciful is the Sniper.

Some say that the Warrior’s solar flare eyes mark the light at the end of the tunnel. He reaches out welcoming arms to hold terrified souls close to his heart, soothing them through their death throes. The revenants of Los Santos, those who wake from stopped hearts, most often cite the comforting cadence of his voice and his infectious laugh. 

Some say that only the innocent are led to rest by the Kingpin. He takes them to the kind of peace which is only felt in those half-awake moments when falling asleep, and there they stay in a dream. Despite his tough exterior and the horrors he has seen and wrought, the Kingpin knows how to repair the tears in the fabric of a soul. 

Some say the Bomber escorts martyrs to a place of warmth and comfort. He berates them for their misguided courage but his anger does not reach his eyes. Those who wake up from brushes with his kind of death can only remember sympathy.

Some say the Golden Boy answers the prayers of the desperate, of those who have chosen to meet their ends on their own terms. In the heartbeats before death creeps into the recesses of a victim’s heart, time slows down. He walks with these souls down the shadowy streets of Los Santos, talking to them with quiet urgency. And after he is done with them, he allows them to make a choice; some choose to stay with him and walk the streets in peaceful thought for the rest of their existence, and others choose to return to their bodies, waking with a gasp and new conviction.

Some say that sinners are met in their deathbeds by a specter of death itself, clad in black and blue. Even from the shadows of stark eye sockets, the Vagabond’s eyes glow a brilliant blue. He collects the evildoers of Los Santos and carts them off to a place of ice and blood and darkness, and there they stay.

All of the citizens of Los Santos know the legends, have told their children in hushed whispers before bed. They all know what will happen when they go, and some go to their graves knowing that they will be met with some old friend they may have passed on the street one day. A chance meeting, a glance from behind golden glasses, the roar of a jet overhead - somehow these glimpses make death all the more familiar.

 

***

 

They enjoy their rooftop silences.

Geoff finds comfort in calming down by Michael’s side. Somehow, having two of the loudest of the crew together in a mutual quietness brings him more peace than pretending to sleep. 

The air is still tonight, and the stars and neon signs of the city glint in soft reflections in the lenses of Michael’s glasses. Geoff never has understood why Michael loves this rooftop so much, but in this moment he does. Looking out at the stillness of the city is like looking into the eye of a hurricane. They both know that they will bring the fury of the storm with them come morning, but for now they are content to stand and watch.

Michael is the first to break the silence, as he so often is. “Geoff, I want to go to the streets tonight.”

Geoff considers making a joke about it, but he forgoes the low-hanging fruit of mockery for a softer “Okay.”

This is their secret, just like their rooftop silences. Michael may be the enforcer and Geoff may be the boss, but they still crave the humanity of walking. To the saints, who can command the time and space of Los Santos, moving with a rhythmic slowness is almost a luxury. So Geoff and Michael find themselves on the street, clad in normal clothes and not the uniforms of the Fake AH Crew. 

Anonymous.

They walk along the street, exchanging absent comments about what they see. Michael nudges Geoff with his elbow and grins when they pass a bar where Geoff had gotten drunk one time, and Geoff scoffs and points at the one next door where Michael had gotten  _ wasted _ . Employer and employee, father and son, friends - nobody can really tell what they are when they pass. Neither can the two of them, really. This long into their time together, the specifics of their companionship have become irrelevant.

Sometimes, they stop to do their work.

Michael trails his fingers along the wall of a crumbling elementary school and his flame-hot touch sears the bricks back into wholeness. Geoff stands and watches for a moment, and he adds his own will to the miracle, knowing that now, books and supplies are appearing in every child’s cubby. These people will never understand how it has happened, but they’ll suspect it, and that faith is what keeps them alive. 

They move on.

When they come across a storefront with its windows shattered, they step gingerly through the glass shrapnel and into the gloomy twilight of the store. “Hello?” Geoff calls, and for a moment the whole area seems to hold its breath.

The sound of a gun being cocked breaks the tension, and a masked man with a shotgun emerges from behind the cashier’s desk. There’s a hefty bag behind him filled with what can only be money. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he spits, hefting the weapon in their direction.

Geoff and Michael put their hands up. “Hey, man, we don’t want any trouble,” Geoff says easily. He sounds just the right amount of nervous. “We just don’t think you should be doing this.”

The guy tilts his head to the side, and his eyes study them from the slits in his mask. “Yeah?” he asks. “Were you planning on doing something about it?” Again, the gun points unerringly in their direction.

Michael studies the gun with a practiced eye, pretending to be terrified of the weapon while he takes in the facts of the situation. This one’s a shotgun, but a shitty one. Michael doesn’t even think he owns this one. It’ll put a dent in both of them for sure, and Michael really does like this shirt. He’d rather not mess it up. From the way the guy’s hands shake -  _ barely _ , but Michael has always been in tune with the would-be murderers of this city - he’ll be a bad shot. Michael, hands still raised, says, “Look, we just know that the cops are on the way. Just stop this and maybe they’ll go easy!” He’s talking too fast, just the right amount of scared. 

“Like hell,” the guy snarls, and he blows Michael’s head off in a spray of bone and blood and brain. 

Geoff’s terrified expression melts into a dark grin. “Wrong choice,” he says, and suddenly he’s leaping over the counter, knife in hand. He’s a force of nature, brute power wrapped up in flesh, and he slashes across the robber’s chest with the wickedly sharp blade. The robber, to his credit, barely lets out a scream, instead shooting again, catching Geoff point-blank in the chest. While Geoff reels backwards, growling curses through shredded lungs, the robber takes the opportunity to roll away. He scrambles up and backs away over the counter, hurrying towards the door until-

He runs right into Michael.

The robber raises his eyes, and chokes out a curse and scream of  _ oh god, no _ , and Michael grins at him with a half-broken jaw. His eyes are blazing out of his ruined face which stitches itself together with sickening slowness as the robber looks on, and still the ravaged mass of his brain is visible through the missing piece of his skull above his eyebrow. Michael lifts the guy off the ground with one hand, gripping him tightly by the neck. 

“Please!” he screeches, pawing desperately at Michael’s arm. “Please, I’ll do anything!”

“You had your chance,” Michael snarls.

The guy squeezes his eyes shut, gasping past the pressure on his throat. “Warrior give me strength, Bomber give me strength-”

Michael smiles wickedly. “Not today,” he says, and suddenly his touch is red-hot, burning a flaming trail from his fingers to the robber’s neck. His grip tightens and his eyes glow bright orange. The robber lets out a final despairing scream, shaking wildly in Michael’s grip, and then he falls silent and still. Michael lets him drop to the ground. 

Geoff ambles over from the other side of the counter, tugging at his t-shirt in irritation. “I liked this one,” he grumbles, inspecting the ragged, bloody holes in the fabric. 

“Same here,” Michael replies, frowning. 

“Hm.” Geoff is looking down at the robber’s body, inspecting the scorched fingerprints on his neck and the ruined melting remains of his eyes. “You really did a number on him.”

Michael shrugs. “Theatrics.”

“Ryan’d be proud.” Geoff snorts, then says, “Don’t tell him, though. He’d feel vindicated.”

“C’mon,” Michael says, heading to the door. “The LSPD’ll take care of this mess.” He walks out and onto the street again, tossing his head to clear the blood from his eyes. This late at night, there aren’t that many people around, but those that are have heard the commotion from the shop and step warily towards Michael. Some choke back gasps when they see his face and the way that his skin is still torn in places, and still others seem to know him even without his uniform. These put their hands to their hearts, ducking their heads in response as they pass. Michael whispers small benedictions under his breath to reward those of faith, and those people find bags of money on their kitchen tables when they return home.

Geoff catches up to him, still grumbling about the shirt. Michael laughs and tells him off, and they begin the long, leisurely walk back to the penthouse. The stars begin to fade into the soft light of the dawn above them, and Geoff takes a deep breath, feeling the life of Los Santos bloom in his lungs. 

He would not trade these moments for anything.

 

***

 

When Ray leaves them, he offers a smile.

He’s always been slow to show these sorts of emotions. Grins were often flashed in the heat of the moment and rarely in situations outside of wild combat. But here, at the city limits, with his backpack slung over his shoulder, he is at his most genuine. He will miss them, and he means it.

Los Santos and its cycles of death and destruction had lost their appeal to him ages before he’d made his decision. To the saints, the time feels like a heartbeat. 

It gives the rest of the Fake AH Crew hope, though. 

Ray’s departure means that there is still an exit. If the Sniper can slip out of the city and turn his ears to the prayers of someone new, then there is a time after Los Santos for all of them. Just as the mortals of the city live and die, so too shall their time ruling the city of saints.

And then they, too, will move on.

They are all gathered to see him off. 

Geoff stands at the front of their band, arms crossed before his chest. He’s got a full beard today, and some of them wonder if he’d done it to hide his face. Jack flanks him on his right, ever-present and steadfast. Ryan stands to his left, face bare of anything but the shadow of black paint around his eyes. Behind them, the three youngest saints wait in a mournful silence. Ray has been their constant for so long, and it was he who granted Jeremy with his scars and immortality on the summit of Chiliad. Michael’s eyes are wide and maybe watery behind his glasses and blustery demeanor. Gavin frowns and tries to hide the way his lips tremble with the threat of tears and lamentation. They are all mourning in this moment.

And behind them, the apostles of Chiliad have gathered to pay their respects. Lindsay with her wildfire hair, Matt with his mirrored glasses, Trevor with his stony eyes, and so many more; they are all here because of him. As one, they raise scarred hands in a silent salute, thanking the Sniper for the shards of divinity he has given them. 

Ray nods to them all, and the late afternoon sunlight glints off of his glasses and sends beams scattering back towards the city. The citizens of Los Santos step out of their homes, staring up in awe at the streaks of divinity which paint the cityscape, and somehow they are moved to prayer.

Ray’s smile falters for half a moment, then strengthens. He has never been one to do things halfway.

“Thanks for it all,” he says, and he means it. He turns to go.

He doesn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from "warriors" by imagine dragons.
> 
> drop me a line [here](http://triplehelix.tumblr.com)!


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